Becoming a Poetess in the Time of Dante: The Story of Gaia Da Camino

"This is the story of how, sometimes, in order to find ourselves, we must walk away from those who claim to love us.

I am Gaia Da Camino. This is my story.

My mother had died just as I was beginning to take my first steps on this earth. My father, a respected lord of Treviso, was known as a wise and just man, so much so that even Alighieri, exiled and in search of refuge, had knocked at his court, confident he would find a worthy shelter where he might stay. Gherardo—such was his name—was the authoritative commander, the powerful and valiant warrior, a man noble in soul and spirit to all.

To all… but not to me.

They have named me Gaia, but my real name was Aica, like many other Aicas before me in the Da Camino family. My mother, Chiara Dalla Torre, had deeply desired me: for her, becoming a mother was the most important thing. My father had consented to her only wish, bitterly regretting it once she failed to bear him another son. From that moment on, I had always been a burden to Gherardo—an inconvenience he had initially entrusted to my mother.

But life found a way to force my father into the role of parenthood: my mother, endlessly reproached for having brought another girl into the world, prematurely left her delicate remains and passed on. And so, the burden of raising me fell like a boulder upon Gherardo's shoulders, he who was known by all as "The Just." Because of this public image, he could not rid himself of the unwanted daughter he had never asked for.

He tried everything to raise me as he had raised his sons: training me in archery and swordplay. Obsessed with competition and desperate to prove that his lineage was a reflection of his own worth, he pitted me and my brothers in pointless contests from a young age, breeding resentment and envy among us siblings.

All my efforts to excel in the arts of combat to please him were in vain. Though my results with sword and bow were admirable for a young maiden, I was constantly belittled by my father, who made every effort not to acknowledge my progress, doing everything he could to discourage me and make me feel inadequate. My devotion to combat was a timid attempt to win his favor, and soften his heart, even though all I truly longed to dedicate myself to was beauty. And for me, beauty was made of words, set into verse like jewels.

Gherardo, who barely tolerated this inclination of mine, never missed a chance to emphasize the futility of my passions and pursuits. His golden opportunity to crush any lingering desire I had to pursue poetry came during the banquet held in our home in Dante’s honor. So—my father must have thought—he could extinguish my literary aspirations. With one of his most devious schemes, he presented me to Dante as a poetess, asking me to read him my verses.

My father, the noble commander, firmly believed I was not only a failure in arms but also in poetry. While he never missed a chance to remind me of that in private, in public he concealed his opinion beneath false praise, for the sake of his reputation. What better opportunity to avoid exposure, than to have a poet humiliate me in his stead?

"I assure you my daughter will keep you fine company," he said with a mocking grin at me, but addressed to Dante.

And Alighieri, whose soul must have always been guided by a higher spirit, sensed in my eyes and in my heart the shame I felt at the humiliation I was about to endure—reading my humble verses to such a gifted poet. Then, like a true father, he spoke to me with a gentleness only my mother had ever shown:

"Noble lady Gaia, I invite you to offer me your verses, so I may carry their echo with me, like balm in the days of exile."

Gaia. Joyous, light-hearted, festive… everything I had never been while living with my father Gherardo.

In that moment, those delicate and caring words soothed the wounds my father had inflicted on my heart for simply existing. Aica—the young girl Gherardo had delighted in shaming, making her feel worthless and incapable—ceased to exist. In that moment, Gaia was born. I found the courage to recite my verses before the great poet, who, grateful for the gift, praised them.

My father, livid with rage, was forced to accept that his plan had failed.

From that day, I never ceased to devote myself to words—whose power, I learned, can change the destiny of those who speak them, hear them, or write them. From that day, I believed in the power of poetry, which led me far from that domineering father who had tried to suffocate my talent—not because I lacked it, or because he could not see it, but because he envied that someone might excel at something he could not grasp.

From that day, thanks to verse, I freed myself—as a daughter and as a woman. I walked my own path of freedom, writing poetry and devoting myself to what brought me joy. Far from my father, his fears, and his limits, I became Gaia Da Camino, the first woman to compose poetry in the vernacular.

Note: Gaia Da Camino was a real historical figure who lived in the 13th century and was mentioned by Dante in the Divine Comedy. This is the story we like to imagine she might have told.